why do i feel this good sober
by DragonSapphire
Summary: Kenny's addiction.


Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or its characters, and make no profit from writing this story. South Park & Characters are property of Matt Stone & Trey Parker.

**why do i feel this good sober  
**

By DragonSapphire

Kenny drained the last five ounces of Jack down his kitchen sink with impassive eyes. _Clear _eyes, but still, impassive. There was no pleasure in knowing he conquered his genetic alcoholism, that he could pick up the tarnished ashes of his life, his relationships, and start again fully aware of his actions and their inevitable consequences.

The funny thing was, his drinking started because there were no consequences. Nothing he did made a damn bit of difference; a limitless rewind button where death and memories were reversible, and no one but him remembered the pain and loneliness that filled the void left behind once his breath stilled and his heartbeat stopped again and again.

He didn't know how he knew, but Kenny was certain the next time he died would be the last. The immortality of youth was denied to him as he got older, so he chased his own demise as vigorously as it had always found him.

He camped out on train tracks and fell asleep to the rumblings of a freight approaching miles away, tiny coarse pebbles jumping and sliding against his back as he spread out as comfortably as he could between the rails. Every morning he woke up whole, sometimes with a stray or two cuddled against the curve of his hip or arm, blinking against the glare of the morning sun and an inevitable hangover.

Attempts to literally throw himself under a bus ended with the gentle squeaks of previously faulty brakes rolling to a slow stop inches from his head, idling patiently until he heaved himself up, dusted off his parka, and continued his walk to school.

He hung around power lines during rain storms, dangled his legs over the edge of roofs during strong winds, and idly poked his fork at a socket while his breakfast of frozen waffles warmed in their crappy old toaster.

But no matter how he tried and tempted fate, no acts of man or God would end his life.

"Sorry, dude," Stan told him distractedly when Kenny had suggested making a suicide pact, figuring he'd have a better chance of succeeding with someone who had everything to lose, as opposed to absolutely nothing.

A popular jock with a girl on his arm, a super best friend, and a perfect family life... Kenny wanted to destroy that almost as much as he wanted to end himself. But he left Stan with his hopes and his dreams, and found his own solace with the bottom of a bottle.

It was only when he was alive and drunk, rather sober and dying, that he was noticed.

He warmed at his friends' staged attempt (just one - they bored easily) at intervention, Cartman even costumed in a white beard, glasses, and clipboard as he narrated in a hilarious accent that was a mix between Einstein and a German dictator.

Kenny agreed to rehab only after Butters actually broke down and started crying after reading his long, eloquently-written letter to Kenny; bullet-point reasons outlining his falsified virtues and worth. The hooded blond of course noticed none of his blood-relatives attended the meeting - not that any of them were even literate enough to _write _a letter - but he convinced himself he didn't actually care whether or not they cared.

After the group of Cartman, Kyle, and Stan disbanded to discuss the latest Expendables movie - Kenny and his addiction already forgotten since no one actually knew where to find a rehab center much less afford one - he hugged Butters, and went home to dump out all the alcohol he could find.

He got the worst beating of his life when his parents came home and couldn't find a single drop of hops anywhere. Ironically, the beating nearly killed him, barely able to grip his ratty book bag with two broken fingers, eye swollen shut, and cracked ribs squeezing his lungs.

Kenny painfully, sluggishly made his way to his second home on the tracks. Now his only home, framed by the harsh cracks of thunder and softer patters of rain. He turned his face up to the dark sky, wetting his face with tears he refused to cry, his mouth threatening to break open in hysterical laughter instead, except it hurt too much to even breathe.

He made a nest between the iron and mud with his head pillowed on his bag, finding comforting familiarity in the cold and the filth. He stared at the sky until his sight blurred and it became too dark to even see the stars. To pass the time, he counted each of his struggling breaths, each pulse throbbing in his various hurts before numbers became as useless and endless as those invisible stars.

Kenny imagined he heard a voice calling him over the chill wind, the slip-slide of rubber boots on wet rocks, and could see a beam of light catch over his limp hair and bruised, swollen face. He felt his breath slow and his eyes slip shut, his shivering easing as icy fingers brushed over his forehead and lingered on the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

He thought he could feel the separation of his soul from his body, easy as anything, because everything was suddenly warm and he couldn't feel the pain anymore.

Funny how giving in feels just like getting drunk.

-fin


End file.
